


The Walls of My Home, They Come Crumbling Down

by ComposingJohnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Guns, M/M, Post Reichenbach, References to Suicide, Reichenbach Falls, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComposingJohnlock/pseuds/ComposingJohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Because Sherlock Holmes took that mess of a flat and turned it into home. 221B was home, and without the Holmes factor, it was just a flat again. One out of thousands scattered across London with just one lonely John Watson residing inside. It wasn't home."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Walls of My Home, They Come Crumbling Down

**Author's Note:**

> The title is shamelessly adapted from Mumford & Sons's "Babel" and the lyrics from the Cinematic Orchestra are from their song "To Build A Home."

                                 "And I built a home  
                                      For you  
                                      For me

                                 Until you disappeared  
                                      From me  
                                      From you."  
                                -Cinematic Orchestra

 

The violin had gone untouched for months. Dust gathered over its polished surface, indistinguishable from the rosin that had once been scattered there by Sherlock's bow.

John would notice it out of the corner of his eye sometimes, sitting quietly by the couch, as though it were waiting for someone to come and pick it up. Maybe that was just the way John felt though. Hell, he didn't want just someone, he wanted Sherlock.

But then, so did everyone else. Lestrade wanted Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson wanted Sherlock. And even Mycroft, though he still upheld that impeccable, perfectly unaffected demeanor of his, ever since it had happened. It was hard to see the effects of his brother's death on him, but John could tell by the way Mycroft's face turned gaunt, his eyes tired, how he sighed more often.  Not completely unlike himself.

And it was hopeless. Stupid, really. Why hope for something to come back when you know it never can? You don't. Not when it's gone past that final point. John told himself this every day. He found, eventually, that he never listened.

To be perfectly honest, he didn't know what it was that got to him the most. It wasn't the silence; it often used to be utterly silent in the flat for hours while Sherlock pored over cases or was entirely focused on the occasional non-combustible experiment. That wasn't it.  John could sit on the couch now as well, as there wasn't a curled-up consulting detective there, clutching his mobile. But it was also worse now in a way, to have the couch empty. Devoid of warmth.

He could also make tea without having to repeatedly check for hazardous chemical byproducts left in the cups. He wasn't abruptly awoken in the god-forsaken hours of the morning to stitch up a bloody detective or to chase criminals over London rooftops. 

One might think that without the need to go out, he might sleep. That was a joke. It was even harder to get a decent night's sleep now when he was, yet again, plagued with nightmares of Sherlock falling away, his hand outstretched to John as he was plunged into undefined darkness.

Besides the nightmares and the overwhelming loneliness, most definitions of living conditions would say these things were technically all improvements. But they weren't. Not to John. His therapist had pointed this out to him.

                                    --

"I know this hit you hard," she had said, sounding genuinely concerned. John winced as if he could tell that she was trying too much. She stared at him, expecting a response. There was only the sound of rain beating against the window, sending shadows of the drops across the floor and the paper of her clipboard. John could still read everything she'd written.

After the stretch of silence she spoke again. "And I apologize. I know it hurts, but you know you aren't in danger any more. What he told you was to keep you safe, and you are. You're safer now that he's g—"

She stopped when he brusquely stood up, not wanting to hear the rest of that sentence. She said his name just once, softly, when he exited the room, letting the door fall closed behind him.

                               --

        That was weeks ago. John had stopped going to his therapist's office, though he really had no reason to. What she said was right, technically. He just refused to accept it. His mind knew there was no benefit to losing Sherlock; there was no positive aspect to it. Whoever trying to attempt to reason with him about this would be talking to a brick wall. 

Plainly and simply, John was his flatmate. That was what he told everyone, if they asked, and they'd look surprised, as if they'd been expecting a different answer. 

"Friend," Sherlock would say.

John's response was always a hasty "Er, colleague." 

The person listening might catch Sherlock's pursed lips, the downward cast of his eyes, and would say nothing. Was it doubt? Disappointment? 

John had only realized that as an afterthought. Once it was too late. Why hadn't he seen it before? 

John regretted that now, among the long list of other things he wished he could have done. Could have said. Could have changed.

                                                      --  
Because Sherlock Holmes took that mess of a flat and turned it into home. 221B was home, and without the Holmes factor, it was just a flat again. One out of thousands scattered across London with just one lonely John Watson residing inside. It wasn't home.

Everyone tried to appeal to his logic regarding this matter, attempting to tell him otherwise. Anyone who knew John Watson, that is.

Because frankly; there was nothing and no one in the entire expanse of the universe that would be able to tell that to his heart.

\--

Mrs. Hudson became more than the landlady. Without her, John didn't know what could've happened. All of England would've crumbled, most likely. 

She came into the flat often. He knew by the way everything would appear slightly straightened and adjusted on the shelves. She would dust the room too sometimes, muttering softly, "Oh, John, dear. You've got to keep things in order." Though she too never touched that certain stringed instrument. John couldn't figure out why.

Was it out of respect? No, people usually kept things clean out of respect. Like headstones. 

Well, John ought to know about that one. He visited the simple, dark monument that marked Sherlock's grave often, and left flowers there, clearing away the wilted petals. The things that the detective would've called stupidly sentimental, and then have brushed them away with disdain. But he did it anyway.

It was Sherlock's. He wasn't here; there was no point in avoiding touching his things. John could probably play it if he wanted to, even if he had no idea how. No one would stop him.

John never picked up the violin.

What, then, could one deduce about his heart?


	2. The Walls of my Home, They Come Crumbling Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lots of things seemed to be occupying his head lately. Many of them should've raised some level of concern, but didn't."

John started to hear it. At night, usually, but sometimes early in the morning, the sound of the violin would echo throughout the flat. Soft tunes mostly, some of which he could recognize. Others were new.  

He couldn't tell if he was just insane or the neighbors were trying to drive him that way. So the doctor would climb groggily out of bed, wince at the kitchen lights and try to see into the sitting room. By the time he would reach the kitchen though, it would stop, like his head had cleared. And when he checked Sherlock's violin itself, it was where it always was, the dust undisturbed. The bow lay in front of it.

The possibility of his insanity was something he should be asking a psychological professional, not going and self-diagnosing himself. Psychology was not his area.  
Yet he was adamantly refusing to see his therapist, so that was out of question. He also didn't particularly feel like confronting one of the people he knew and saying "Hello, I think I've gone mad. I'm hearing my flatmate's violin playing in the morning even though he's dead." 

It started to make him afraid. And maybe a little angry. But like most things nowadays, it made him feel an overwhelming sense of misery. He couldn't manage to keep steady the meager sleep he got already; he didn't need the damn violin playing at four in the bloody morning. 

John asked Mrs. Hudson about it too, subtly, "wondering aloud" if the neighbors were playing it at night. Results were inconclusive. She apparently hadn't heard any sort of stringed instrument.

In a way, this confirmed it for John. He was mad. Completely cracked in the head. 

Lovely.

 

     ---

 

It was Saturday. Just like any other Saturday, John supposed. The violin woke him up at four. He crawled out of bed, dressed, and headed downstairs, when it promptly stopped. He didn't even bother to check for it anymore as he opened up the curtains and started the kettle for tea. 

He read the paper.

At noon or so, John's daily routine was altered slightly. He took out his gun, the L106A1, and laid it on the top of his nightstand. 

He didn't look at or touch it again for two weeks.

 

\---

 

It was bound to happen at some point. And when it did, it was a Friday night, though technically, Saturday morning. The clock in John's room read in clear red numbers 2:23 AM.

The sound of the violin was erratic, as though someone upset were playing it, sawing the bow across the strings viciously. 

When it stopped, John's fists were tightly clenched. He had felt the fingertips of his right hand brush against the pistol.

\---

 

That next morning, John accepted his madness. He put the weapon out in the sitting room, on the table near the couch. The barrel faced the kitchen. He went about his day, went to work at the surgery, and came home smelling of cough syrup.

John had just taken off his jacket when he noticed the gun had been turned around. The barrel now faced the couch. He told himself it'd been Mrs. Hudson, mostly because he really didn't want to think about it. He picked it up, took it back to his room, and put it under the pillow.

There was no music that night.

Things somehow settled into normality. The noises became less frequent and John busied himself with work. But he didn't put the L106A1 away. It resumed its spot on his nightstand, safety on. He tried to forget and remember it at the same time. When he thought that seemed odd, he reminded himself that he was insane, and then it was alright.

\----

It was a whole month before things started to get worse again. John was fired from St. Bart's, and he didn't completely remember the reason. Something along the lines of "unfit to care for patients, needs time off."  He didn't know for sure; he had left without bothering to question it. Mrs. Hudson gave a heartfelt apology, promising that if he was low on money, she could reduce the amount of rent until he was financially secure again. He politely refused. He didn't need anyone's pity.

That same night, the violin picked up the tune of Vivaldi and lasted for two hours.   
Two weeks later, he'd stopped trying. He stopped trying to keep himself busy, sometimes even neglected to keep his appearance in a state of decency. John felt like he was falling into Sherlock's habits; rarely sleeping, hardly eating. The only thing that made him keep himself hydrated was the small voice of reason in his head. 

Lots of things seemed to be occupying his head lately. 

Many of them should've raised some level of concern, but didn't.  
    
Another month had passed, and it was soon the anniversary of Sherlock's death. John got up and made tea for two, set the mugs on the table and drank none of it. From his perch on Sherlock's chair, he could clearly see the violin. It seemed to stare back at him.

That night, John's mobile went off twice. One message from Mike, one from Lestrade, and naturally he ignored both. At nine o'clock he went upstairs and changed into more comfortable clothes. Just after he'd pulled a shirt over his head, the violin started up softly.   
At 9:08 he turned off the lights and sat on the edge of his bed. It creaked when he leaned over and gently lifted the gun from his nightstand. Out of habit, he checked the clip even if he couldn't see in the darkness and chambered one bullet. It would only take one.

The music suddenly turned shrill. This must be the crescendo. John shut his eyes tightly, waiting until the sound of the violin softened again before he slowly thumbed the safety off. When the slight click sounded, everything became dead silent for a brief moment. John placed the barrel between his teeth, inhaling deeply before—

That sound.

The sound that broke the silence was something he knew painfully well. It was the melody Sherlock had been composing for months up until… well. Up until it had happened. John still remembered how the detective would always work on that piece; adding parts during cases, removing some after they were solved, improving, for the longest time. It had always sounded a bit rough. Unfinished.

It sounded flawless now. This couldn't be in his head. If Sherlock couldn't perfect it, he sure as hell couldn't, definitely not with his mind like this. 

So John did something he hadn't done in a very long time. He set his jaw, dropped the gun on his bed and moved very quickly down the steps leading to the main part of the flat. The sound of his footsteps chased the music away, as usual, but John was resolute this time. He flicked all the lights on and scoured the room for anyone, anything. There was nothing. John sighed through his nose, eyes lowering. 

A gleam caught his eye. Of course it was the violin -- sitting innocently by the couch. The doctor scrambled across the room and kneeled to inspect the instrument. The dust was still there, if not more. John hadn't checked in a long time. 

He sat back on his heels, grasping his head firmly in his hands, inhaling shakily. His shoulders hitched. In a wild thought, John figured it would take less than a minute to get back upstairs, where the dark promise of his gun was still waiting. 

John stood, feeling an odd lurch in his stomach that couldn't quite be classified as fear. Anticipation, maybe. As he stepped past the table he knocked over a newspaper, sending it flying to the ground. Considering what he was about to do, it shouldn't have mattered, but he picked it up anyway and gathered the scattered papers together. He folded it over but stopped halfway through setting it down when he noticed the words written over an ad for an Italian restaurant. It was in red pen, and looked like it'd been hastily scrawled on.   
John read it once. Twice. It was about the fifth time when it finally registered, and he sank to his knees again, feeling like he'd been punched in the stomach by a particularly vengeful fist.

If this was a prank, he would hunt down the person who had done this and shoot them, skin them, and then burn the pieces. And if it wasn't… well, it was easier to plan for the prank than it was for the real thing.

The newspaper was clenched in his fists now. 

The words meant a number of things, a few of them being absolutely surreal. Hell, this moment right now was surreal, he ought to be dead. Maybe he was. Maybe this was his brain giving him a few seconds of this – whatever this was -- before dying. 

Or perhaps this was reality, and everything in his heart and his mind screamed and begged to let that be the case. If it was, everything would change. Everything.

What was written on the paper was in very recognizable spidery handwriting. John had seen it a thousand times on scientific notes describing experimental procedures, on forms applying for materials for said experiments, and legal documents… 

It was really a very simple message, though it meant more than the world to John Watson. It would speak monuments to everyone, and it wasn't even five words long. Though considering the history of the man who had supposedly left his initials there, it was to be expected. The words were too. But there was one completely unanticipated thing about it.

 

John, you idiot.  
SH

The consulting detective that left it there.


End file.
